


If Impossible Is I’m Possible, And The Impossible Is Possible, Then Where Am I?

by pantryplaitstaples



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Confessions, Contrary To Apparently Popular Practice This Has Been Edited Too Many Times, Eventual Fluff, Gratuitous Use Of Water Metaphors And Similes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mild Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29957844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantryplaitstaples/pseuds/pantryplaitstaples
Summary: "I'm sorry.""What for?""That it didn't work. That I wanted it to work - want it to have worked."A whirlpool of emotions threatens to punch holes in his skin and spurt out."I'm sorry too.""What for?""That I agree with you."In which Thomas does not know. Until, of course, he does.
Relationships: Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	If Impossible Is I’m Possible, And The Impossible Is Possible, Then Where Am I?

**Author's Note:**

> I never realised how nerve-wracking it is to post anything on this site! Still, I hope anyone who reads this enjoys (at least, eventually!), and any positive and constructive feedback is definitely welcome :)

Do you believe in the impossible?

Thomas, for a naive time, did.

He believed to not get presents on Christmas was impossible. He believed to not get a goodnight kiss was impossible. He believed to see someone, a person, kill another person was impossible.

He believed to lose it all would be impossible.

Until he knew better. Until he  _ did _ .

It takes, the impossible. It takes, and it keeps taking, more than he can give, leeching him dry until he’s nothing more than a breathing, sleeping, walking corpse of a shell.

Yet somehow, someway - ironically, almost seemingly impossibly - once this notion of naivety has been thoroughly squashed, he starts to forget about the impossible. Or, maybe, ‘forget’ isn’t right - more like buries it under weighted masses of guilt and nihilism. 

And maybe just a little bit of something else - something brighter.

And it goes on like this, on and on, muscle memory keeping him afloat, a buoy his cheek has been strapped to, the rest of him hanging, limp, lifeless, underwater.

And maybe a little current in the odd moments, lifting like he's weightless.

Until the impossible, once again, knocks him out of the depths and into one of countless hospital visits.

Only this time, it is a million times worse than the others.

Because  _this_ time , it doesn’t feel like the other times. 

This time, it is not his body aching, but being torn mercilessly, limb from limb, tendon from muscle; not his heart being broken, but shattered, like frozen concrete through exploitation of natural frequency. Not his soul being torn, but shred. Shred until there is nothing left but a hollow emptiness. An absence.

All this for someone who, to the outside world, is nothing more than a dot on the earth. A speck. Who, to the eons that have passed and will pass, is a mere blip on the monumental cosmic scale.

And yet, who, to Thomas, is like air he needs to breathe. Like the dreams he needs to sleep, the legs he needs to walk. 

It’s funny. Here, in this endless, white, sterilised corridor, which somehow carries in it more gore than a war-torn battlefield, he’s still heaving. Still pacing. The only consolation, is that he hasn’t yet rested. 

He can feel it coming though, his eyes drawing heavy, his blinks elongating until they are a measurement in and of themselves, equivalent to a thousand years; a nurse entering the hallway, blink, she’s turning the corner at the opposite end.

It’s agonising, here, in this endless, white, sterilised corridor, where he’s waited so many times, and yet every time it feels like a whole new crushing weight beating down on him. Alone. 

Something vibrates in his coat pocket. 

He flicks it off. 

It is stupid. Here, in this endless, white sterilised corridor, he’s not flying solo - Minho grabs him and pulls him into a crushing embrace; Gally, though he doesn’t like Thomas much, squeezes his shoulder; Teresa , though she doesn’t like Newt much, pats him arm - because there are people  here , with him. And he can never fly again.

Not without Newt  here . With him. Like he'd promised.

He wishes he was somehow better. Then, maybe, he could’ve stopped this - all of it. If he had called sooner, if he had never let Newt out of his sight-

“Thomas, stop. It’s not your shuckin’ fault, okay?” _ Is it yours, Minho? Is it your fault, then? Could you have found him sooner? Is it your fault? _

If he had just known- the signs are so glaring obvious now, the retreating and the quietening, the spacing out- so obvious-

“Tom, you couldn’t have known.” _ Could you have, Teresa? You were always watching him, jealous. Did you know? Did you see and not do anything even though you could have? Is it your fault? _

He could have known - he _should_ have known.

If he had just been born as a mutant, or struck by lightning, read his mind and talked him out of it- 

“Thomas. You’re not a superhero. You can’t save everyone.” _ Could you have, Gally? Could you have done something? Could you have stopped him? _

Except, it wasn’t everyone. It was _him_.

_'It's not your fault, Tommy. It’s not theirs either. I did this, okay? Don’t play the blame game - it’s my fault,’_ seems like something he would say. True or not.

And how he wishes he could just... reach out and touch his voice. That it came from a tangible being standing in front of him. But it is no more than an echo through the crevices of his mind.

“I know.”

The years - minutes - stretch on, and Thomas wonders when they’ll snap. How painful the backlash will be.

His friends stay in the corridor with him, but when someone exits or enters the treatment room, they ignore the young adults. Thomas just wants to shake one, scream at them to tell him if his Newt will be okay. 

If he'll ever see him smile or laugh or cry again.

***

_ “Do you think he’ll make it?” _

_ “I dunno, man. I mean, a fall from that height?” _

_ “Yeah. Seems impossible.” _

_ Paramedics have never been less desirable. _

***

The sun is up when they’re finally acknowledged.

“Family members?”

“No,” Teresa says at the same time Thomas says, “Yes.”

The woman gives them an unimpressed stare. "Sorry, family members only. A parent or guardian preferably."

Before Thomas can explode, Gally grips his arm. "Look, do you see his parents here? No. We've been here all night waiting to see him. If that’s not family, then I don’t know what is.”

A blink later, and the woman has her back turned to them, white coverall like a slap to the face. Thomas hurries blindly after her, muttering an insincere apology when he catches the heel of her shoe.

They pause outside the door, and, too soon, she pushes it open.

It’s funny. Here, in this enclosed, white, sterilised room, his eyes find Newt’s chest rising and falling, and he collapses, breathing shallow and getting shallower.

He feels like he might pass out.

Strong arms carry him by the armpits, and he lets them like a zombie, lets them guide him to sink into a chair by the silent body hooked up to beeping machines, bandages wrapping around the occasional limb. The largest is around his left ankle.

The person is droning on in the background, but all Thomas can focus on is his Newt. In front of him.

Hesitant, he rests a shaky hand over the unconscious boy’s chest, hardly pressing. Faint, but there is a steady rhythm.

He breathes easier.

There’s a window set in the opposite wall. Thomas approaches it, carefully undoing the latch and-

Pulls.

It opens an inch, and no more.

His ankles are attached to lead weights as he retakes his seat.

Minho settles next to him, and Thomas tears his eyes away from Newt to watch his lips relax into a tired smile. “Do you wanna know what she said?”

Thomas thinks. Then shakes his head. "Not yet.” 

***

Throughout the day, people flit in and out. His friends leave to go to the toilet, and return with their palms holding on to residual warmth and coffee stains on their lips - Minho with one on his shirt. 

And through it all, Thomas clings to the few constants: him, the chair he’s in, Newt, the bed he’s in, and their connection via clammy hands, the small, steady pulses he can feel whenever he positions his fingers just right.

***

_ "Just do it, Thomas. Come on, you can do this. Oh great, now you're talking to yourself. Just- he picks up, you ask. Capiche? Capiche." _

_ He does not pick up. _

***

The sun is down when Newt moves a finger.

It’s Thomas and Teresa who are in the room, and when it happens, Thomas freezes at the sharp intake of air.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Teresa jolt upright.

Inhale. “Newt?”

More fingers curl.

Exhale. “Newt.”

When his eyes pry open, Thomas wants to cry. 

“Tommy?” Newt’s voice is croaky, and his throat has to be sore beyond anything. But Thomas cannot bring himself to call for a cup of water, or even to just reach down and grab the bottle Gally left off the floor, because Newt is awake, and Newt is wincing, and Thomas wants to grab him and shake him because  _why would you do that?!_

Instead, he speaks, throat feeling as dry as Newt’s probably is. "Yeah.”

Now, his throat burns, the bones that make up the edges of his eye sockets are being squeezed, and his chest is closing up.

He is close to tears.

And he hopes it shows - that Newt can see what he has done to him because  _why?_

It must, because when Newt blinks some of the grogginess out of him and properly looks at Thomas, his expression turns pained. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

The words catch momentarily. Thomas forces them out. "What for?”

“That it didn’t work," Newt's voice breaks, "That I wanted it to work - want it to have worked.”

Teresa’s leg bounces on the floor and her hand shoots out to keep it still. 

Thomas blinks. The door clicks shut - the chair is empty. 

A whirlpool of emotions threatens to punch holes in his skin and spurt out. Right now, he can’t decipher most - any, really - of them, except a very large portion of rage that he blames for what he spits out next.

“I’m sorry, too.”

“What for?”

“That I agree with you.”

He wonders how it’s possible to want to strangle the life out of someone and kiss the oxygen out of their lungs at the same time.

Newt looks like he just slapped him, and Thomas feels an empty triumph.

He blinks again. A white-washed person stands in front of him, helping Newt into a sitting position, Teresa next to him, clenching a plastic cup of warm water. The side under her thumb is bending in, the water level slowly inching upwards, closer and closer to spilling out.

Thomas presses his fingers to her arm, jerking his head to where the imminent spillage is about to happen.

She follows his movement and immediately ceases her subconscious strangulation of the poor plastic, passing it to the woman when asked.

“Nice and slow,” the woman soothes, bringing the cup up to Newt’s lips. Thomas tracks Newt’s throat as the small bump moves up, then down, in time with his small gulps.

After fifty sips and five percent of the water has gone, she glances back at the two antsy presences.

“Mr Isaacs." She pauses, like she expects an indignant correction. She doesn’t get one. “Would you like visitors at this current time?”

Two days ago, Thomas would’ve scoffed in her face and flopped next to Newt like he owned the place.

Now, Thomas isn’t sure what Newt will say. He isn’t sure of anything anymore. He wants to look, wants to stare at Newt and watch his face, his expressions, try and catch the emotions flitting across his worn features. 

If there are any.

“No.”

Not waiting for the dismissal, Thomas turns and pushes the handle, tugging the door open and stepping into the hallway without looking back.

Then, he walks. 

Out of the hospital, down the street, and he keeps going. He feels his pocket to make sure his phone is there in case he gets any calls. But even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure it would stop him.

Maybe a kilometre, maybe two, maybe more. All the time, his mind wanders, the distraction of his thoughts helping him ignore the odd looks passers-by send his roughed-up state.

Thomas wants answers. Why did he jump? What could’ve led him to something so- so  drastic? Why didn’t he reach out for help? Why didn’t he tell someone- anyone? Even just asked for a little help? Why didn’t he tell  _Thomas_? 

Thomas thought they were close, closer than close, the best of friends even, as childish as the notion seems. Newt has always helped him, his armbands in a choppy ocean, keeping him sane, grounded and afloat.

Is it his own fault for Newt not telling him? Did Newt feel like he couldn’t tell Thomas because Thomas has his own problems? Did he feel like that would burden Thomas more? Does he not trust him?

This last thought hurts the most. It makes him stop.

It seemed unthinkable, that Thomas could ever feel anything other than a rushing joy, however dim because of past’s shadows, in response to thoughts of Newt. Even in their most hurtful of fights, there would always be some part of him that would want to make the other boy crack a grin, a smile, a smirk, a quirk. 

Today, though, Thomas finds the sadistic hope for Newt to be as miserable as he is rising to the forefront of his flooding mind. His capsizing heart, his sinking soul. And in the middle of the nameless street he’s ended up on, he sinks down to the cold, hard ground, a droplet of salty water hitting the surface just before his knees make impact.

He just gets more questions.

***

The sidewalk becomes his temporary home for the next hour, his wall-less sanctuary for contemplation where people stare at his no-doubt tear streaked face as they go to work, to the shops, to school, to window-wash.

You know when you ask the universe to give you a sign? You say,  _ if I turn the corner and there’s poop by the bin, I’ll tell my teacher I was the one who engraved the dick on the desk _ , and then you turn the corner and there’s dog shit just festering there, and you say,  _ I meant bird poop, so that doesn’t count_.

If Newt had answered his call this night, Thomas would not be here and Newt would not be there. 

They would be - Thomas drags his coat sleeve up to read his watch: almost twenty past five - laughing over a massive cup of ice cream (because Newt is that person who embraces extreme temperatures a little too much). Thomas would lean over and brush off a spot of melted vanilla from the corner of Newt’s mouth in the cheesiest way possible, making him giggle in the most adorable way possible.

Sighing, Thomas scrapes some mud off his palm, then gets to his feet, his legs aching.

God, he wishes he could just reach out to his right and find Chuck’s tousled curls, practically daring him to try and make them more messy.

He wishes he could turn around and be poked in the stomach by his dad’s probing fingers, chasing him with tickling threats.

He wishes he could look up and see a Mickey Mouse barrier against the rain, follow the handle down to the curve at the end where his mom clasps it tightly to protect him from the downpour.

Wishes, wishes, wishes. He wishes for a lot of things, but as he wishes for his family, here, on this cold, wet, frigid pavement, the browns start to lighten - a blond which shines gold when perpendicular to the sun, and shadows in the perfect dusk.

And in their place, he remembers nights curled in front of the TV, volume turned low and snores rising from the floor. Sleepily burrowing into a warm, welcoming body, nose twitching at the light brushes of blond wisps. Shivering at the press of soft, slim hands against his spine.

“Fuck,” he groans quietly, tipping his head back, shutting his eyes to the rivulets that meander down his forehead.

***

_ “Slim it, Tommy.” _

_ “But-“ sniff “-I don’t wanna. My tummy is weird.” _

_ “This’ll help, I promise.” _

_ “... Maybe if you wear a nurse's outfit?” _

_ “Just eat the bloody soup.” _

***

Sopping wet and with squelching shoes, he waves down a passing taxi to ask for directions to the hospital.

“Sure you don’t want a ride, kid?”

“I’m sure.” He wants as much time as possible to sort through the mess that is his mind.

Turns out, the way back is much, much shorter than he expected. Like, more than half. On his way here, he’d taken, probably, the most round-a-bout way possible, and basically been making his way back to the hospital before he’d taken up residence on the side of the road, so his ‘thinking time’ is a mere twelve minutes.

In the end, he spends the time contemplating whether the person who labelled windows as ‘windows’ named them by joining together ‘wind’ and ‘o-pen’, or ‘wind’ and ‘ou-ch’.

He mumbles a sorry when he passes the receptionist, who raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the muddy puddles he leaves in his wake.

Outside Newt’s room, Sonya paces the width of his door, meaning, essentially, she looks like she’s just repeatedly turning on the spot with a small hop in between.

When Thomas enters her field of vision, she freezes, taking in his tattered appearance. 

She wrinkles her nose. “What happened to you?”

“Mother Nature.”

Sonya barely seems to notice he’s replied, resuming her useless aim to carve a trench in the floor. “I hate this.” 

Thomas sharpens his focus on her, and now he can make out tear tracks - sprouting from raw eyes - criss-crossing her cheeks. “I hate this so much.” She looks at Thomas, her eyes pleading. "Why did he do it, Thomas? Why?” 

Thomas doesn’t have an answer, and luckily, Sonya doesn’t seem to want one. She’s thinking out loud, he realises. Her conscious isn’t here, in the present; it’s wondering, and she’s muttering, her mind-to-mouth filter hazy with grief and confusion.

“I don’t want to go in. Minho and Gally are in there right now - the doctor said they could go in a few minutes - like, half an hour - ago, and she said I could if I wanted to - I’m family after all - but-“ she halts, and Thomas can see her posture crumbling under the weight of her brother’s actions - the brother who should be comforting his sister’s pain, not causing it.

Well, as far as he is concerned, he's her brother too.

“Shhh,” he whispers, drawing her in close and squeezing her shoulder, conscious of his dripping clothes and her dry ones.

Sonya tugs him in closer, forcing him to fully embrace her, and she squeezes him until he’s positive she’s just as wet as he is.

If she doesn’t care, though, then he’s certainly not going to hold back any comfort.

He cradles her shuddering body, hiding his own sniffles in her pulled back locks, and they pull apart slowly when Gally opens the door. “Sonya,” he smiles, tight, but relieved.

“How is he?”

Gally’s teeth worry over his lip, and his eyes flick to Thomas, then back again, “Fine. Sort of. Do you want to see him?”

Her reply comes in the form of slipping through the gap between Gally’s shoulder and the doorframe.

“Well,” Gally says, stepping out and shutting the door behind him, “that's one answer.”

One move, just one step, and he could turn around, could retrace his steps yet again and walk away, like a  well, this is what you wanted to Newt’s face.

He moves.

Banging his head against the wall.

“Woah-“ the hard impacts suddenly turn soft “-Ow!”

Thomas goes for a glare and an eye roll, combined. “Don’t put your blo- shucking hand there if you don’t want to get hurt.”

There’s no way Gally missed his hurried word-swap, but he has decency enough to ignore it in favour of knocking his knuckles once - hard - on Thomas’s skull. 

“What the hell?” Thomas snaps, jerking back.

“I’m tryin’ to knock some sense into that klunk brain of yours,” Gally says, crossing him arms over his chest.

“Into me? Well, have you tried knocking some of that sense into  him?"  Thomas points accusingly at the door, the tide still crashing over his heart, drowning-intentions clear.

For a moment, Gally’s face wipes blank, which means only one thing: the unexpected.

And unexpected it is, when Gally, the coldest, most rigid one of them all, grabs Thomas by the elbow and roughy tugs him into a crushing hug.

To his own surprise, Thomas lets him. 

Maybe it is that he knows it will be a long time before Gally is ever like this with him again (funny how it took someone almost dying to bring it around. How Thomas almost desperately hopes it happens tomorrow, and overmorrow, and morrow, morrow, morrow, but then, is it worth it?). 

Maybe, it is just that he wants the comfort of human touch.

Whatever it is, he cannot find it in himself to care.

Simply, accept.

He feels small when he speaks. "He said he didn’t want to see me.”

In reply, Gally presses their bodies closer together.

“He said he still wanted it to work." Thomas sniffs.

“I know, Thomas. But he wouldn’t have jumped if he didn’t know he wanted to.”

But  why  did he want to? As much as Thomas asks himself this very important question, there are no answers dangled in front of him which he can just pluck out of the air and be done with the whole thing. 

He needs to talk to Newt, needs to understand, because he needs to know what to do right from this point on - what to change so none of them ever have to go through something like this again.

As the thought takes ahold of his mind, the door opens slowly, and Minho and Teresa step out.

A startled snort jumps out of Minho’s mouth when he sees the two locked in a close embrace, but Thomas just... doesn’t want to leave it.

“Shut it, Minho,” Gally grumbles, not pulling away, and Thomas almost smiles.

The feeling is wiped away within the next ten seconds.

Teresa steps back with Minho, leaving the space in front of the door clear, and she gestures to it. "I think you can see him now.”

Thomas doesn’t move. For some reason, it just doesn’t sit quite right with him that he was turned away at first, and now that he has ‘permission’ everyone expects him to leap to it - a sheep to a shepherd.

“Tom, please? Is it not better to sort this out now, rather than later?”

No, Thomas can’t see Newt now, he just can’t. He may have raced back to the hospital after his small epiphany, and he may hate Newt a little less than when he first saw him, broken and ignorant, in the hospital bed, but he’s not- he’s not ready.

“Not now,” is all he says, giving Gally one last hard, gratitude-filled squeeze, before spinning on his heel and walking away.

Reaching into his pocket as he leaves, he fumbles for his phone, pressing the button on the side and glaring at the picture that brightens the home screen.

It is tempting to his passive-aggressive side to change it to one of their group with a noticeable lack of British, when Newt was in England for half of the summer.

With a heavy sigh, he pockets the device, darkness swallowing the image of Thomasbridal-style in his arms, both of them laughing at each other, and Minho’s fuzzy finger in place of grass.

The apartment is too warm when he gets back, a shock to his systems after the cool breeze that was scratching at his neck before he entered the building. He trips over one of Minho’s shoes he forgot he accidentally displaced in his rush to leave this mor- no, yesterday evening, and lands, hard, against the wall.

Feeling too weak to move, he stays there for a minute, leaning his head on the smooth surface and inhaling deeply.

His head hurts.

It is the uncomfortableness of too many layers - damp layers, at that - which motivates him enough to stumble across the room, to the heating setting, where he turns the dial almost a full circle, then into his bedroom, shrugging off his clothes and throwing them over the radiator as they come off.

Grabbing a pair of thin shorts, he tugs them on. Takes a grey T-shirt off his bed and goes to wear it, slipping his head through the hole. But as he’s putting his arms through, he realises:

This isn’t his top.

It’s Newt’s.

A part of him wants to rip it off and burn it.

A minute later, he’s sprawled over his juxtaposing neon-flower covers, a hand clenched in the T-shirt.

Sleep seems impossible.

He’s drifting under, something wet crawling down his cheek.

***

_ "Wow, they look even better in person." _

_ "You knew about this?!" _

_ "Of course. Who do you think chose the design?" _

_ "And you went with roses and... sunflowers." _

_ "Payback for the mug shots, you wanker." _

***

Thomas is ready in four days. He feels like four is a good number, so he hails a cab, still humming along to  Shake It Off because Minho thinks it’s the best shower song in the world and doesn’t care for the well-being of anybody else’s auditory abilities.

The ride is short - too short - but in the small amount of time he does have, he decides on ‘wind’ and ‘ow (ouch)’, because windows can do some serious damage if you walk into one (Newt laughed for days after, whenever he saw a piece of glass).

Teresa texted him Newt’s new room number two days ago. He looks at the message. It, unsurprisingly, looks no different to the thirty four other times he has looked at it. 

There’s a male nurse in the elevator when he gets in, but that’s all he sees before he immediately backtracks and heads for the stairs - time.

Is not enough, because it feels like barely any time at all between rolling down the stairs after an all-nighter, and being poised to knock on Newt’s door.

Deep breath.

He knocks.

No one answers.

Furrowing his brow, he tries again, strains his ears for even a peep from the room.

Nothing.

Something starts to rise in him - panic, perhaps, fear, maybe - something cold and hot at the same time, scalding and sickening.

“ _No, no, no, no_ , ” is the broken mantra that leaves him, fumbling for the door handle to tumble into the room - 

He’s on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

And Thomas can’t-

He has to lean against the door he’s just closed, sinking to the floor, because  _ he’s here _ .

When he cracks his eyes open, Newt is still staring into the void above. A part of Thomas entertains the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Newt had been staring at him before, when his eyes were closed, but he doesn’t know.

It’s a nice thought, though.

And maybe it’s just to make himself feel better about staring at Newt now, pushing off the wall to stand up and dragging one of the chairs further away from boy. Slumping down in it once he deems it a safe-enough distance for there to be enough time between acting impulsively and having seconds thoughts to stop his action.

“So,” he starts, Newt having still not moved his gaze.

Thomas isn’t even sure he’s blinked.

“If you want to say something, please, say it now,” he offers, because he does not want to be interrupted.

Newt continues to ignore him - which he thinks is pretty childish, but whatever - so here goes.

Everything.

“Do you believe in the impossible?” he’s not expecting an answer, and he doesn’t get one. "I thought losing you was impossible. I thought anything other than happiness and joy was impossible for me to feel when I thought about you. And look how that turned out."

For the briefest moment, he thinks about second thoughts. But with this, he thinks he is far past two. Too far.

“Did you know, the day you jumped, I was going to ask you out. On a date.”

A breath hitches in the room.

“I told myself, if Newt answers this phone call, I’m gonna do it- enough is enough, I just need to ask. No one answered the first time, or the second, or the fourth. And when I called Minho, and he told me he and Alby found you an inch from death,” he takes a breath; he has to keep going. "I don’t remember much between getting the call and getting to the hospital. Just the thought of what if I never- you never smile or frown or- or say ‘bloody hell’ again? God, Newt,” Thomas laughs dryly, tips his head back to rest against the chair, “I was terrified. And then we talked when I was allowed inside, and- I was suddenly angry. Raging. I- I  hated  you. I just kept thinking, how could he do that? Why? Could  I  have done anything- could any of us?” 

His voice quietens, "Whose fault is it, Newt?”

By the time he’s finished, and he's allowed his chin to drop back to his chest, Newt is staring at him, considering him.

Sharp eyes pick him apart and scrutinise every piece of him, and he sits still, like an animal on display at the zoo.

Finally, Newt answers. “Everyone’s.”

It’s almost relieving, at this point, that his answer is nothing like the one Thomas imagined him whispering to him days ago - that there isn’t any apparition in this world that could compare to the real thing.

One word is all it takes for Thomas to snap, and instead of second thoughts, he thinks  _ ‘I didn’t put the chair far away enough’ _ . His hands reach out, fingers splayed to grab-

Newt’s skin is warm under his hands, a small gasp tickling over his face, his mouth chapped against his lips, and Thomas presses in, harder, still chaste, still soft.

Just as abrupt, he pulls, steps, away, the distance between them like a thousand solar systems: unknown and unfamiliar, but undoubtedly there.

Wide eyes stare back at him, pale lips parted in- shock? Surprise? Amazement? 

Thomas exhales his alveoli. “Then what can everyone do to make sure this never happens again?” 

Slowly, sloth-paced, Newt’s lips draw shut, meeting in the middle, and Thomas sees his throat bob with a heavy swallow.

He stays silent, waiting for the blond to speak.

When he eventually does, it is not entirely what Thomas expects.

“Well, I don’t know about  everyone, " he mutters, "but  you could definitely do that again.”

It’s so, so- so  _ Newt _ , that Thomas can’t hold back the instinctual quirk of his lips, the huff of breath, giving in to the smile tugging at the corners.

“That, I can do.”

Attached to a tether that spans the length of a hundred light years, Thomas crowds into Newt, finds the other boy’s lips with his own, hands, hair, and it’s like he’s drowning all over again, engulfed in everything that is warm and British and lilting.

Somehow, it’s like flying at the same time.

“I’m sorry.” He feels the words more than he can hear them, forming against his skin. “I’m so sorry, Tommy.”

The kiss turns salty, tears mixing between their lips.

And Thomas finds it in himself to mumble, “I’m sorry, too.”

***

_ "I wish they were here. Sometimes. I just- I wish." _

_ "... From what you've told me, I feel like Chuck would've been able to make Gally smile." _

_ "Yeah. Yeah, I think he would've." _

_ "And your mum would feed Minho so much he'd be a waddling penguin on the track." _

_ A broken laugh. "Isn't he already?" _

_ "Sorry, a rolling seal." _

_ "Better." _

_ There is a stillness. _

_ "And my dad would be rotting in a jail cell." _

_ A drawn breath. A shuffle of movement. _

_ "And I would be here, with you." _

_ A nod in the pale light of the night. _

***

Later, Minho, Gally and Teresa find Thomas teetering on the edge of his chair, knees pressing into the bed, half of Newt’s body sitting up and centimetres from spilling out of the covers.

Thomas can still feel the dried tear tracks, stale on his face, and Newt looks just as frail as he did when Thomas first entered the room.

But there's a new rosiness to his cheeks, a brightness in his eyes, and Thomas knows he’ll be okay.

“Thomas,” Minho notices him, surprise colouring his name.

“Yeah?” Thomas discreetly moves his hand, putting some reluctant distance from where it had been previously brushing the blond’s.

“You’re here.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

Newt’s sarcastic remark dissolves whatever tension was in the room, and, with an amused eye roll, Minho goes over to sit on the other side of Newt’s bed, Teresa claiming the other chair after pulling it slightly closer, and Gally giving Thomas’s shoulder a squeeze, going to settle at the foot of the bed.

“Tommy been giving you trouble, Newtie?”

A warm bubble expands inside Thomas’s belly at the if-looks-could-kill glare Newt directs at Minho.

“Feisty,” Minho grins, but corrects himself, “ _ Thomas _ , then.”

“None that’s not...  _ appreciated _ ,” Newt replies, the suggestive emphasis sucking the moisture out from under Thomas’s tongue.

Gally scrunches his impressive eyebrows, “Really did not need to know that,” and Thomas laughs at his friend’s clear disgust, and suddenly, he feels brave enough to move his hand again. But this time, he slips his fingers between Newt’s own, tips of his blunt nails poking the webbed skin that stretches between Newt’s digits, and vice versa. They’re not holding hands - he could easily press his own palm onto the sheets - but it feels intimate all the same.

Minho smirks at his movement.

“Do you still want to die today?”

Abruptly, a swatter on a fly, his joy ceases, and his head whips around to face Teresa. He’s about to open his mouth,  _ what the hell is wrong with you?! _ -

“No,” Newt says, thoughtfully, and Thomas feels like he’s a spectator at an intense tennis match with the way his head spins back, to find Newt’s eyes resting on him. “No, I don’t think I do.”

“Good,” Teresa smiles, and Thomas wonders just how often they’ve been in this room together.

“So, Thomas. You wanna hear what the doc said when we first saw Newt in here?”

For a moment, Thomas has no idea what Minho is going on about, until he remembers,  _'Not yet'_.

He nods. "Tell me.”

“She said it should’ve been almost impossible, but he survived,” Minho paraphrases, winking at the blond, because how could he know his words mean so much more than their already profound meaning. "Our boy got real lucky.”

“Yeah, a real bloody miracle,” Newt grins. Gally snorts.

And yeah, Thomas thinks, tilting his head to observe his blond friend. Newt smiles at him, twinkling stars reflected in his eyes like the surface of the ocean. He may hate believing in the impossible, but here, in this polished, small, simple room, surrounded by a lagoon of home, he certainly doesn’t mind believing in miracles.


End file.
